Friendly reminder that Phoenicians are a lot of feckless, conniving cunts who would axe their own grannies if the money was good.
Having one on this sodding ship rankles me and how.
For I will not lie me down, this rain a-raging;
I will not lie me down, in such a storm.
And if this night be unblessed, I shall not take my rest,
Until I reach another shore.
Though my mates be drained and weary
And believe all hopes are lost,
There's no need for their bones
On that blackened bottom.
Though death waits just off the bough,
We'll not answer to him now.
He shall stand to greet the morning light without us.
So here sit I, scotch in one hand and stout in the other, gazing out on the Thorn’s stern. And there stands our captain with her violin, playing to waves.I’d hardly Mark it if she didn’t insist on playing the most haunting music a fiddle can conjure.
Must be something about being a captain drives a person to enigma and eccentricity. Bad as wizards, the lot of them. Maybe worse. Heaven help the man who tries to tell which from which. It’ll drive him to to drink.